evening songs
by nienors
Summary: Something does not add up, but Amy Pond doesn't care to do the math. Eleven/Amy.


**author's note**: written for the eleven-era kink meme at livejournal.

* * *

At an endless table, she sits with a napkin crushed between her hands in her lap. Surrounding her in the dining room of the second crown prince of Hydrae B are ornate statues and glasses brimming with intergalactic champagne and a thousand different kinds of aliens, all discussing avant-garde science and cosmic politics and the charming weather this time of year in Beta Metracula. It's the prince's birthday dinner and she's trying her hardest to keep up, joining in sudden bursts of laughter and sometimes wholeheartedly agreeing and occasionally shaking her head in disbelief when it seems appropriate. Every once in a while she straightens her bright yellow evening gown and tucks a strand of red hair back into the loose bun sitting just above the nape of her neck. The Doctor, in a proper black dinner jacket and bow tie (she fights the urge to roll her eyes), sits close to her on the left, emerged in a somewhat heated conversation on the particulars of aerodynamic poly-temporality. Above the table that seemingly stretches for miles, the chandeliers glisten softly.

Amy Pond of lower Leadworth is out of place and never has she felt it more.

The obvious solution is more champagne, and around her third glass, she accidentally drops her fork on the floor. It clatters loudly and her face flushed, she moves to pick it up, but the Doctor's reaching for it too. Call it chance (she's not), his hand brushes against hers, his skin cool and her eyes wide. She assumes it's an accident, but only until his hand continues to drift over hers, his thumb gently moving in circles.

Another thing: he's not looking at her. Yet his hand continues to slowly sweep past hers beneath the table, foreign and familiar. She reacts, running her fingernails over his palm. He lingers for a moment on the pulse point on her wrist and they're a bit too close, but it's always been like that. The fork stays forgotten on the floor.

Suddenly, his hand is gone and she mourns the lack of contact until she feels him on her upper leg, skimming the plunging slit of her dress. Her breath hitches in her throat and she casts a quick look at the other guests, but no one has seemed to notice. She finishes her champagne, leaving traces of red lipstick along the rim of her glass and now she has his full attention. He's staring at her mouth with something that might be wonderment, and this turn between them is unexpected, but not impossible. With a downward tilt of her head, her eyes catch his and although that boyish fringe of hair partially obscures his face, his expression is hypnotic and teasing and she involuntarily inches her legs apart.

"Having a decent time?" he asks casually, as if his hand was not up her dress. "I hope this isn't boring you."

"Not at all," she manages. "Fascinating company."

"You are an absolutely incredible creature, Pond," he says and then, "Let me."

When she nods, he grins back in response like it's Christmas morning and she wants nothing more than to dig her fingernails into the lapels of his jacket. Someone down the table calls on the Doctor to appraise a painting on the wall and he turns away for a short moment, but she knows she still has the majority of his attention. His hand continues upwards and out of the corner of her eye, she sees his eyebrows rocket upwards in surprise when he finds she's not wearing any knickers. She's wet and it's all for him and she's sure that he _knows_ because his lips have turned upwards and she somehow doubts that Hydraen art can really make him that happy.

She fixes her eyes on the ceiling, and slightly shifts her hips, at once welcoming, begging, and eager. Heat pools below and her breath is becoming increasingly uneven. Something does not add up, but she doesn't care to do the math.

He dances over her sensitive skin, teasing her, and she's slightly concerned that she'll tear the table cloth she's holding taut in her hands. When he slides a finger into her, only shallow at first, she feels coherency slipping from her. He shifts again and adds another finger and twists just so and Amy Pond is practically a lost cause. This is wrong (he's nine hundred and seven years old, she's getting married in The Morning, they're surrounded by aliens in polite cosmic society), but she can't hold back the dreamy smile on her lips because she likes it.

"Doctor," she breathes quietly and more than a name, it's a plea.

"Amelia," he answers.

Her back arches in her chair, her eyes flutter shut.

Beneath the table, he gently presses down on her clit and she suddenly can't hear the conversations around her, the server offering her more champagne, or her own shaky exhales. She's vaguely aware of the Doctor studying her with wide eyes.

She doesn't care.

(Three hours before, she walks up the steps to the TARDIS console, yellow fabric snug against her body and her high-heeled shoes loud against the glass floor. When he looks at her, he abruptly drops his sonic screwdriver and then there's a pause - prolonged, awkward, slightly comical. She asks if there is something wrong with the dress. He shakes his head - _it's fine, you look, okay, nice, good, magnificent_. When she says thank you, it's without a blush.)

"It's past magnificent," he says in her ear when he draws back and it's with a smile. "It's _fantastic_. You can't let me ruin it."

She opens her eyes and for a moment is lost in trying to map his words, but then finds her footing and tells him he looks ridiculous in that bow tie. He laughs and it occurs to her that she would have thought picking up the old threads would be been more difficult.

She lets go of the tablecloth between her hands.

It feels a little bit like freedom.

Later, they will walk through the courtyard back to the TARDIS and Amy will loop her arm around his. She'll stumble a bit, but he'll catch her and in the middle of telling her off for not eating, he'll point up at the sky and trace the circumference of the largest moon. Inside the time machine, they will laugh and say goodnight and go down separate corridors.

They will never talk about this.


End file.
